


The Red Arrow

by Toastzombie



Category: History of Middle-earth - Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gondor, Rohan, Third Age, Tolkien, genfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:11:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastzombie/pseuds/Toastzombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of ancient Gondor and the beginnings of Rohan. Cirion and Eorl have sworn their oaths, but there's a lot more to be done to secure their alliance, not least devising a better system of communication. Cirion's son Hallas thinks he has an idea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Arrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thevina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thevina/gifts).



> Special thanks to my poor battered copies of ROTK and UT for incredibly obscure and geeky Tolkien details, and the Thain's Book website for having most of those details in a more accessible form. A very merry Yuletide to the recipient of this fic, I hope it is to your liking! And a very merry Yuletide to everyone else reading, writing or otherwise involved in this wonderful ficathon. Any and all feedback is love.

The arrow sprang from the bow and soared in a perfect arc, twisting slightly as it fell. It landed point-first, with a gentle _thunk_,in the grass some four hundred yards away. An excellent shot, Hallas judged it, and no wonder, for he counted Húrin among his best archers. As he echoed the others in praise, however, a quiet thought nagged at him that it was impolite for a host to show up his guests.

 

_Guests_ was too weak a word, of course – after the oaths sworn that morning they were now firm allies, and beginning a tentative friendship that would strengthen with time. And camped as they were on the western bank of the Glanhir, they were now technically in the Northmen’s land.

 

The next Northman archer stepped forward to take his turn. It was a fair shot, but it fell far short of Húrin’s mark and Hallas did not think that anyone, Gondorian or Northman, would match it. A voice beside him echoed his thoughts, saying ‘the bowmen of Gondor must give their arrows wings to fly so far.’ Hallas turned to find the Northmen’s leader standing beside him. At a distance, Eorl would disappear among his riders. He dressed in greens and browns, and his sword hilt and scabbard were plain leather. But when he came closer, he wore an air of command like armour, both regal and relaxed. It was a presence Hallas expected from his father, not this golden young man, and he wondered if he would ever learn that art.

 

‘Perhaps on foot,’ said Hallas, bowing his head to acknowledge the compliment, ‘but their aim certainly lessens on horseback. Any boy in Gondor could learn to shoot, but it would take one born in the saddle to match your riders.’

 

‘They could try,’ replied Eorl, and grinned. His hair and beard were tinted red by the westering sun, and Hallas found himself smiling in return. It was easy to forget how _young_ Eorl was when he had sworn an oath for all of the Northmen, or when he negotiated politics and borders wisely and easily with Cirion. If the Northmen’s stories were true, he had been their lord for almost ten years, but Hallas had to keep reminding himself that Eorl was five years his junior. Of course the Northmen did not have the long lifespan of Gondorians, that last lingering trace of long-fallen Numenor, but even so…

 

The archery contest ended with Húrin the clear winner. He graciously accepted their praise, and Hallas heard him tell the Northmen about the archers of Gondor. ‘It comes from our forebears in Numenor, whom the Elves taught,’ Húrin began. ‘Their enemies said that the Men of the Sea sent a great cloud before them, like rain turned to serpents or black hail turned to steel. The King’s Archers used bows made of hollow steel and their black-feathered arrows were a full ell long from point to notch.’

 

‘Impressive, but the first rider to try such a bow would keep tripping up his horse with it,’ said one of the Northmen dryly, and the men laughed together.

 

\----

 

Later that evening, when the sky was pricked with stars, Hallas sat by one of the campfires next to Eorl and asked about the battle on the field of Celebrant. Eorl looked confused for a moment, then nodded as he understood. ‘You were not there, of course. I would have remembered meeting you, even in the midst of a battle.’

 

‘My father left Minas Tirith in my care,’ Hallas explained.

 

‘There is no shame in defence,’ said Eorl, looking at him inquisitively. ‘I left some hundreds of riders in the north to guard our homes, although they would have followed me if I had called them.’

 

‘I was not ashamed,’ said Hallas hastily, ‘and I was not about to desert my post and chase glory; I was no second Faramir. But I watched my father march away with our northern army and thought that he might die and I would not know for months afterward, perhaps not until the wainriders came knocking on the doors of Minas Tirith itself.’ He was babbling, he realised, and went on quickly, ‘what I mean to say is that I owe you my thanks, for saving my father when I could not reach him.’

 

Eorl did not reply, only looking keenly into his eyes for several long moments until Hallas began to feel uncomfortable and rather foolish. ‘It was my honour,’ he said at last, quietly. Then he continued, ‘no doubt you have heard all that happened from your own captains, but I will tell you what I know, although we only came at the last.’

 

‘We passed over the Undeeps at dawn, and crossed the river Limlight soon after, so that we came to the battlefield in the early morning. Your army was being pressed towards the great river, the Anduin. The orcs swarmed like rats; the ground was black with them. Our bowmen could have fired their arrows in any direction and been sure to fell an enemy, and even,’ he grinned suddenly, ‘even a mounted Gondorian bowman could have hit something.’

 

‘Your father, the Steward, had retreated to a low hill, and he made his stand there with many of his warriors. They seemed like an island in that vast dark river of foes. We sounded our horns and charged towards them. The rabble never expected us. We flowed over them like a great wave, and they went running and crying in all directions. A great many ran away, but many were also caught between us and it was heavy work to ride through them.

 

‘We reached the hill at last, and the messenger, Borondir, he hailed his lord, your father. Cirion turned to look at us and the glare in his eyes would have melted steel. I think he could have burned all his foes into submission if they had stayed long enough. But he looked over us and saw we were no orcs, no Balchoth. He smiled and clasped my hand, and that was how we met. He spoke very fairly, although he was hoarse from shouting orders. Together our armies cut through the orc-host, and we drove them across the Limlight. Some made a last stand on the far river bank, and they had archers. There Borondir took an arrow meant for his lord, and he died. But we hunted the rest across the plains.’

 

‘Once again, Eorl, you give me too much credit,’ came Cirion’s voice. Hallas looked up, startled, to see his father standing on the other side of the fire.

 

‘You are too humble, Cirion,’ said Eorl, not sounding the least bit contrite. ‘But who could blame a son for admiring the deeds of his father?’ And to Hallas he sounded slightly wistful. Eorl gestured at the log beside him, welcoming and regal as a king in his court, and Cirion came to sit with them.

 

‘It is an amazing tale,’ said Hallas, ‘and more so because it almost did not come to pass.’ Three pairs of riders, he thought, with more than nine hundred miles of orc-infested land to cross, bringing a plea that we did not expect to be heeded. Is it any wonder that only one prevailed? He shivered slightly as he thought of what would have come to pass if Borondir too had failed… no message and no aid, Gondor and the Northmen in peril of being obliterated… yes, how very closely they had all escaped disaster.

 

‘Yes,’ Cirion agreed, ‘with all my valiant captains, still I would say that those six messengers were the bravest men in Gondor. And Borondir was the best of them. His name shall be remembered with honour.’ The three men sat quietly together.

 

‘When they come again, you will need a better means to call for aid,’ said Eorl thoughtfully. None of them raised the thought that the enemy might not return.

 

‘We have the signal-fires on the mountains, but they could fail by chance or sabotage,’ said Cirion. ‘Perhaps it was unwise to mark my messengers so clearly, but how else could I be sure that their message would be believed? At least this new token could be insignificant to any eyes but ours.’

 

Hallas stared into the fire. ‘An arrow,’ he said suddenly. ‘No enemy will notice an extra arrow in a man’s quiver.’

 

‘But by that token, neither will an ally,’ Cirion retorted.

 

‘It would need to be subtly different, certainly,’ said Eorl.

 

‘A painted tip!’ Hallas said. ‘An arrow with the tip painted red, which an enemy would only see as dried blood.’

 

‘Red for vengeance,’ said Eorl, smiling his approval.

 

‘And we can only hope that the messenger would fly as fast as an arrow,’ Cirion concluded.

 

They looked at each other, and nodded in agreement.

 

\-------

 

The next day was hot and fine, the dew disappearing long before they dismantled their temporary camp. ‘We will need to find another name for our new neighbours,’ said Cirion to Hallas as they rode slowly away. ‘What they call themselves is hard enough to pronounce let alone spell, and we cannot call them Northmen any longer. What name would you give them, if it were your choice?’

 

Hallas looked thoughtful for a few moments. ‘The _rochirrim_,’ he replied, thinking of Eorl, so effortlessly regal. ‘And they will make their own name for Calenardhon, I suppose, but I would rename it _rochan_.’

 

‘You are a veritable well of ideas lately,’ said Cirion with a smile. ‘I should send you north more often.’ Hallas ducked his head to hide the unseemly grin on his face. The arrow, black-feathered with the tip freshly painted red, was safely stowed in his quiver.

 

They turned to take a last look at the Northmen, the _rochirrim_, before the riders disappeared into the green plains. Eorl raised his hand and called a distant farewell. Then he signalled to one of his archers.

 

And an arrow sprang from the bow and soared in a perfect arc, twisting slightly as it fell…

**Author's Note:**

> Story notes: the Red Arrow is only mentioned once in Return of the King, specifically 'The Muster of Rohan'; it was _'black-feathered and barbed with steel, but the point was painted red'_. Yes, of course it was Eorl and _Cirion_ who swore the oaths at the hill of Anwar, but Hallas, Cirion's son, was there too and since he and Eorl are closer in ages I thought they would have more to talk about.
> 
> The Glanhir is also called the Mering Stream and formed the border between Gondor and Rohan. Húrin's lines about the archers of Numenor are lifted almost directly from the 'Description of Numenor' in Unfinished Tales.
> 
> Hallas' line about 'no second Faramir' is certainly not meant to reflect poorly on Denethor's second son (and Hallas must have been _extremely_ far-sighted if it was). Faramir was the younger son of Ondoher, the last king of Anarion's line. He followed his father and older brother Artamir to battle and died there, leaving Gondor without an heir. I have taken artistic license in making his name equal 'glory hound' to later generations of Gondorians, but unless Tolkien specifically denies it we'll never know...
> 
> Cirion gave each of his messengers a small stone carved with runes that spelt R-ND-R, which is _arandur_ or steward – which is admittedly not a clear mark unless their bodies were searched, but a pair of messengers riding north from Gondor should have been enough to make any enemies suspicious. Hallas made the names _Rochirrim_ and _Rochan_ to describe Gondor's new allies. Eventually the words morphed into _Rohirrim_ and _Rohan_ in later generations.


End file.
